


Hold Me Tight

by louciferish



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anxiety, Body Pillows, Canon Compliant, Fandom Trumps Hate, Fluff and Humor, M/M, POV Victor Nikiforov, Post-Canon, Social Media, ilovemyyuuripillow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23685130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louciferish/pseuds/louciferish
Summary: “I needed to sleep with a pillow before, to keep my back straight after an injury. Phichit got it for me as a joke!”After Victor uncovers Yuuri's private body pillow collection, he decides it's not fair that he doesn't have the same type of merch of his Yuuri.It turns out what Victor's just done is fulfill an unspoken internationalneed.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 84
Kudos: 629
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	Hold Me Tight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GenuineFirefly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenuineFirefly/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Обнимай меня крепко](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25587730) by [fandom All Figure Skating 2020 (fandom_All_Figure_Skating_2020)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_All_Figure_Skating_2020/pseuds/fandom%20All%20Figure%20Skating%202020), [Otto_the_Otter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otto_the_Otter/pseuds/Otto_the_Otter)



> The bulk of this concept came straight from GenuineFirefly, who was my winning bidder for the 2020 Fandom Trumps Hate auction, an annual multifandom event benefiting human rights-focused non-profit organizations. 
> 
> My beta for this work was the indomitable pickleweasel ;) Thank you to everyone involved!

Victor had lived with other lovers in the long years of waiting before he met Yuuri.

It was never formal or especially romantic. He’d never gifted someone a spare key in a ring box or asked them over dinner, heart fluttering in his throat and clogging the words. No, those others crept into his life naturally, a gradual build over the course of weeks or months.

A new toothbrush would appear in his bathroom one morning, only to be replaced by a full toiletry kit a few days later. A spare shirt or blazer draped over the back of his bedroom chair would eventually morph into a whole shelf of Victor’s closet reserved for someone else’s wardrobe. Sometimes, he still finds shirts that are too tight in the neck or hang blousy on his waist, and he remembers— _Dimitri, Petyr, Marco_.

After the first few fights, he had learned to accept these slow mergings without comment. Phrases like “make it official” or questions like “Where is this going?” could frighten someone off, upset the delicate thing being built around him. With time, he came to appreciate these small gestures toward a burgeoning closeness for what they were, not something to be forced, but all the while he couldn’t help wanting—more. Victor wanted the spectacle. He wanted the grand romance. Despite his efforts, it always lay just out of reach, beyond the tips of his fingers.

When Yuuri arrives in St. Petersburg, his move into Victor’s apartment is a different species of gradual. He bursts off his bus with two bags: one on his shoulder filled with skating equipment, and a suitcase on wheels that contains a week’s worth of clothing and, inexplicably, a rice cooker.

_“I can make rice on the stove,” Victor suggests later as he leans against the kitchen island, watching Yuuri set the machine up on the counter._

_“I watched you cook with Mama at home,” Yuuri replies, deadpan, “and no, you can’t.”_

Yuuri explodes into Victor’s apartment with few belongings, but—unlike the others—he brings all of himself.

His things follow in the next few weeks, arriving in drips of boxes some days and floods on others. The most important items are shipped by direct freight from Japan. In the down time they have between practices, Victor enjoys finding the ways in which Yuuri's things fit into the empty spaces of his apartment, transforming its cold, photoshoot-ready interior into something warmer, something more like _home_.

January becomes February, and then March roars in. They're both distracted by preparations for World's, only a week away, when the last few packages arrive on the doorstep. These are from Detroit, mailed internationally courtesy of Phichit Chulanont himself, and they're overflowing with souvenirs of Yuuri's years in America.

Victor's intrigued, but he's also _busy_. Nothing makes one realize the folly of doing double duty as coach and competitor quite like preparing for a World Championship in both roles at once. 

They don't have time to unpack these extra, non-essential boxes, so Victor stacks them against the wall for the time being and focuses his attention on training to win another World title—while also training his fiancé to defeat him.

It’s early May by the time Yuuri notices the boxes again. They’re fresh off a long run of various ice shows in Russia and Japan, and they’ve only just finished dealing with the overflowing mounds of gifts they’d gotten from fans, who had been especially generous in the wake of Victor’s retirement and the official announcement of their engagement. 

With all the excitement, it takes some time before they settle back into the apartment. They agree to a week off together before they resume Yuuri’s training in earnest. 

It takes two days of respite before they both become bored and restless.

The day is unseasonably warm for Russian spring, and Victor’s opened all the windows. The pleasant sunshine mixes with a still-cool breeze that blows the scent of the sea into the apartment, and something about the temperature and energy of a spring day inspires them both to clean. Victor tidies their shoes by the door as Yuuri wipes down cabinets in the kitchen, humming his new free program music under his breath.

When he goes quiet, Victor turns to look. Yuuri’s paused by the window, considering the stack of boxes. There are only three, and they’re not all that large, so he’s not certain why Yuuri is staring at them like a puzzle he can’t piece together.

“Did you want to start unpacking those?”

Yuuri jumps at the sound of Victor’s voice, then shakes his head. A slight frown disrupts his mouth, and Victor resists an impulse to cross the room and kiss it away.

“Actually, I was thinking of tossing them out.”

“Why?”

Yuuri shrugs. “I can’t remember what’s in here, but I know I haven’t used any of it in almost two years. I must not need it much if I can forget about it for so long.”

“Sure.” Victor agrees with the idea in principle, but, selfishly, he really wants to see inside. Victor’s only experience with Detroit Yuuri was the banquet at Sochi, and that’s a _very_ happy precedent. He wants to know more about this version of the man he fell in love with. “But Phichit went to all the trouble and expense of mailing them to us—shouldn’t we at least look?”

Yuuri chews his lip as he considers the boxes again. “I guess so.”

Victor tries not to let his excitement show. He hasn’t scared Yuuri off with his enthusiasm yet, but that doesn’t mean he _can’t_.

Together, they unstack the boxes and begin to sort through the contents. The first box doesn’t have much to it—a few rolled up posters which, judging by Yuuri’s flushed cheeks, Victor can guess at the subject of, and a collection of various small medals and trophies that Yuuri hadn’t bothered with sending home to his parents through the years. 

The second box is a bit more interesting, and Yuuri lets out a groan as the cardboard folds back to reveal a pile of bright colored, shimmering fabric. “Costumes from uh—dance class,” he explains, though his face is a bit too red (and those shorts Victor spotted a bit too short) for ballet.

But Victor lets it pass without comment as they move along to the third box. Most of the contents are pictures—framed photographs of family and friends that Yuuri had displayed in his dorm room—and Victor’s heart flutters at the small, soft smile that transforms Yuuri’s features when he gingerly lifts these from the box. 

“I used to keep this one of Vicchan on my desk,” he says quietly, turning it so Victor can see. It’s a simple gold-colored frame. In the photo, the little poodle is perched in a basket, head tilted in question at the camera.

“You could put it on the book case here, if you’d like,” Victor suggests, nodding to the shelves against the wall, littered with photos mostly of Makkachin through the ages.

Smiling, Yuuri rises and crosses the room, searching the shelves for the perfect spot to add Vicchan to their developing family album. In the meantime, Victor digs back into the box, pulling out a tightly rolled piece of green and white fabric. He holds it up in front of himself, and it unfurls.

Victor’s mouth falls open along with the cloth. It’s not a banner, like he first thought, but a pillowcase, and printed on it is a very familiar sight—a costume ruffled in green and white, a long silver ponytail, and a smug little smile. 

“Yuuri…” he begins, but before he can finish his question, the pillowcase is yanked out of his hands.

Face crimson, Yuuri tries to hide himself from Victor’s view behind the rumpled fabric. “I—I can explain!” He proclaims. His face is now wholly obscured, but Victor can still see his little red ears peeking out on either side. “I needed to sleep with a pillow before, to keep my back straight after an injury. Phichit got it for me as a joke!” He lowers his voice to a mutter, adding, “I’m going to kill him.”

“Oh, am I a joke to you?” Victor’s tone is calm and even. Over the edge of the pillowcase, Yuuri’s eyes go wide. “I’m kidding; I’m kidding,” Victor says, chuckling. “It’s fine. I think it’s cute, really.”

Trying to clear the air of Yuuri’s embarrassment, Victor reaches into the box again without looking and pulls out another pillowcase. This one is more recent. Victor’s hair is short, and his shoulders broad, but despite that he’s in the same black mesh costume Yuuri chose for _Eros_. 

He hasn’t actually worn that costume in years, and there’s no chance he would even fit into it now. To their credit, the artist who created the pillow seems to know that—at least Victor assumes that’s why the zipper up the back of the costume doesn’t seem to close, exposing the entirety of his bare back. He eyes it up and down. Is he really that pale?

Yuuri snatches the pillowcase from his hands and promptly sits on it. “It was a limited edition! They only made two hundred of them! I never used it!”

That seems reasonable. Maybe. Victor doesn’t know enough about these things to judge for sure. Then, he reaches into the box and unfolds a _Stammi Vicino_ version. This one has a small stain—drool, perhaps?—splashed across Victor’s face.

Yuuri makes a noise that causes Makkachin’s ears to perk up.

In total there are _five_ Victor pillowcases, and Yuuri winds up sprawled across them like a dragon guarding a hoard, though Victor’s used to the beasts in those stories breathing fire, not spluttering and attempting to hide behind a confused but excited poodle.

After a brief, gentle wrestling match, Victor finally frees Makkachin from the tableau and gets his arms around Yuuri instead, though his fiancé is still attempting to hide his face in Victor’s cleavage. 

“You don’t have to be embarrassed around me.” Victor tries to sound reassuring, but he’s not sure how good he is at it. “I think it’s cute.”

“Really?” Yuuri looks up, eyes still narrowed and reddish behind his glasses.

Victor plants a kiss on the tip of his nose. “Really. It’s sweet that you’re so devoted to me.”

Though the look in Yuuri’s eye doesn’t seem entirely convinced, he’s calmed enough for some of the tension to seep from his body. He leans into Victor’s embrace, nestling his head beneath Victor’s chin, now practically in his lap. Makka, curious, sniffs at the pillowcases still piled on the floor.

Victor wasn’t lying—he _does_ think Yuuri’s collection is cute—but beneath that he’s a bit baffled. He knew there were plenty of posters, calendars, and even stuffed animals modeled after him in the world, but he had no idea there was apparently such a market for pillows. Are there pillows of other popular skaters as well? Does Christophe have a pillow? _Does Yuuri?_

Now there’s an interesting thought. He holds onto Yuuri with one arm, careful not to tip them over, and finds his phone on the floor nearby. He’s lucky he has so much practice typing with one hand now that he and Yuuri have had to spend some time apart.

He gets as far as “Yuuri Katski bod—” before Google autocompletes with “body pillow”. The fact that this is a common search is both very gratifying for Victor (yes, Yuuri _deserves_ this) and also gives him more than a small twinge of jealousy. He holds Yuuri closer.

As he scrolls through the results, Victor can’t contain the sound of outrage that burbles up from his throat. Yuuri raises his head, sees Victor’s screen, and immediately lunges for the phone.

“Why are you Googling that?”

“Why aren’t there any results?” Victor counter-demands.

Yuuri blinks, disarmed enough by the question that Victor manages to snatch the phone back and steal a kiss on top of it. “Well,” Yuuri says slowly, “because no one would buy it, of course.”

“ _I_ would buy it.” Victor folds his arms and deliberately puffs out his lower lip. “It’s not fair. You have so many of me, and I don’t get to have a single Yuuri?”

“You have the _real_ Yuuri!”

It’s ridiculous how cute Yuuri is when he gets flustered, and he seems to be genuinely confused right now. He’s not getting it, and adorable as that is, Victor’s getting frustrated as he tries to sort out how he can make Yuuri understand. It’s not as if he wouldn’t prefer to have the real Yuuri, but sometimes...

“What if we need to spend time apart again?” Victor asks. “What if one of us has to travel for an event and the other can’t make it?” He lets his arms fall to the side and drops his theatrical pout for a genuine frown. “If I have to be alone again… I just want a piece of you I can hold onto.”

He can see the instant Yuuri softens, shoulders slumping in resignation as Victor’s emotional plea strikes its target. “Oh, alright,” he sighs. “I’ll see if I can find someone who does custom pillows online.” 

Thrilled, Victor surges forward, pressing Yuuri back into the pile of discarded pillowcases to sprinkle his lovely face with grateful kisses. “Yes, Yuuri!” He boops the tip of Yuuri’s nose with his finger and watches in satisfaction as the flush spreads from that point. “Show me your true Eros with this too, okay?”

As he dips in for a longer kiss, Makka notices the apparent wrestling match happening and leaps into the fray, landing on Victor’s back with a _whump_ that knocks the breath out of him. Between everything, they don’t get much more unpacking done that day.

-

After that initial conversation, the topic dies. The pillowcases are folded up, tucked into the back of a closet for safe keeping, and for the most part, the thought is put aside with them. Victor’s only hint that Yuuri remembers his promise is an off-hand remark about meeting a photographer on one of their off days.

“I didn’t think we’d scheduled you for any new shoots until September,” Victor says, frowning as he double checks the calendar on his phone. 

“No,” Yuuri says, “this is for—something else.”

He’s blushing again, and Victor is _intrigued_ , but he also doesn’t want to press it. No matter what Yuuri’s plan is, Victor knows he’ll love it, and he always loves it most when Yuuri has the opportunity to surprise him. He lets the comment lie, Yuuri goes to his appointment, and Victor doesn’t pry when he comes home two hours later in sweatpants, his hair in disarray and a duffel bag thrown over his shoulder.

Weeks pass, and the thought of Yuuri’s promise slips from Victor’s mind entirely in the rush of training, ice shows, and romantic walks around St. Petersburg on the warm summer evenings. Yuuri is enchanting in lamplight, peering over the side of a bridge to look for fish in the Neva below, the water reflecting a shifting pattern of stars against his skin. Victor’s never won a prize so precious before.

It’s a bright Tuesday morning when the package arrives. Victor rises early, careful not to wake Yuuri. He gets dressed quickly and brushes his lips over his fiancé’s forehead as he leaves the bedroom. Yuuri mutters something in his sleep, but Victor can’t tell if it’s Japanese or just sleep-addled jibberish.

Sunlight is already warming the window panes, and Victor opens them, allowing the curtains to blow inside with the cool air. It promises to be a glorious summer day. Unfortunately, it’s also a practice day, but Victor makes a note to see if they can conduct some of Yuuri’s off-ice training in a local park. The thought reminds him of his early days in Hasetsu, when training Yuuri for the Grand Prix had meant jogs up to the ninja castle and long bike rides beside the sea.

He laces his trainers on by the door and grabs Makkachin’s leash. She’s already at his side, eager for her morning walk, and it takes a few tries before he can get her to hold still long enough to be leashed. When he opens the door, she leaps into the hallway. Victor, close behind, stubs his toe on the box. 

It doesn’t hurt; it’s just annoying. He drops the end of the leash and pinwheels for a moment to regain his balance as Makkachin goes charging down the hallway—only to stop in front of the neighbor’s door when she realizes there’s no Victor at the other end of her lead. Victor picks the box up and gives it a brief glance—small, lightweight, with Japanese postage—and tosses it back into the house before closing the door behind him. 

When he returns with Makkachin, the package is gone, but Yuuri’s doing yoga on a mat in the living room, feet up by his head for “happy baby” as his shorts strain across his thighs. Victor forgets about the box.

It’s not until they’re finishing dinner on the sofa, hours later, that Yuuri clears his throat in the way he always does when broaching a sensitive subject. His cheeks are already pinking, and Victor’s learned that means he’s going to like what Yuuri has to say next. 

“I uh—I have something for you.”

 _A present_? Yuuri puts what’s left of his chicken and broccoli on the coffee table and steps into the hallway. His face is even more flushed when he comes back, the small box Victor tripped over in his hands. The top is still sealed with packing tape when Yuuri drops it in Victor’s lap and sinks back into the sofa.

“I hope it turned out okay,” he mutters in the direction of his food. “Please don’t show me if it looks ridiculous or something.”

“I’m sure it’s wonderful.” Victor is already tearing into it, ripping cardboard with his bare hands when the tape won’t budge. After a struggle that leaves him more breathless than he’d like to admit, the seams part, and a folded square of cloth falls into his waiting hands.

Victor holds it up for a better view, and it unfurls—a pillowcase. _The_ pillowcase. On one side is the Yuuri Victor is most used to seeing, wearing his training clothes, glasses, and a small, shy smile. But the other side? The other side is Yuuri in all the glory of his Eros costume, back unzipped and red-lined black fabric slipping down one shoulder. His eyes are smouldering, and he seems to be looking straight at Victor.

The noise Victor emits causes Makkachin to raise her head. “ _Yuuri_ ,” he gasps. “It’s _perfect_.”

“Really?” Yuuri peeks over, then just as quickly looks away. “I… wasn’t sure how it would turn out. I used a photographer Phichit recommended, but it was really awkward. He wouldn’t stop trying to _talk_ to me, even after we finished shooting.”

Jealousy seizes Victor’s throat. Oh, he knows what that means. The bastard who took these pictures was _flirting_ with his Yuuri, all while Yuuri was way outside his comfort zone, partially dressed. Victor’s fingers clench in the pillowcase. 

“It was only when he stopped talking,” Yuuri adds quietly, staring down at his hands, “that I was able to focus on you instead—how happy you would be to see it, and the way you would look at me when I got home.”

Yuuri raises his head, and when Victor meets his eyes, Yuuri smiles softly. “Yes. Just like that.”

“Thank you,” Victor says, fervent, clutching the empty pillowcase to his chest. “I love it.”

Smile widening, Yuuri teases, “Wait, you’re holding that very close already. Are you sure you aren’t going to replace the real thing?”

“Not yet,” Victor answers slyly, then leans in for a kiss. For all their joking words, the kiss is tender and slow, and they both linger before slipping away. 

“I’m glad you like it,” Yuuri murmurs, eyes half-lidded, lips still temptingly close to Victor’s own. 

“I told you, I love it,” Victor says, not meaning the pillowcase. 

Settling back into their spots, they finish the last few bites of dinner. The pillowcase stays draped carefully over the arm as they curl together to watch a movie, and the night drifts on around them.

-

Victor sets his phone down on the bedside table and waits. He’s sprawled across their white down comforter, splaying his limbs out to find the places where the fabric is still cool to the touch. The bedroom window is propped open, and the cool air of a warm summer morning drifts inside. 

Yuuri was up before him today, and so Victor woke up bereft, lonely, and more than a little amorous. The bedroom door is ajar to let Makkachin wander in and out, and he can hear the sounds of Yuuri’s current favorite video game echoing down the hall. He can also hear it when, a few minutes later, Yuuri’s phone starts beeping, rapid-fire, as alerts pour in. 

Smirking up at the white expanse of the ceiling, Victor waits.

Yuuri doesn’t strain his patience for long. “Victor?” his voice is threaded with confusion. “What did you tag me in?” There’s a small pause, then a faint, “Oh my god.”

Ah. He’s seen it then. Good. Victor is _proud_ of this one. It had taken several attempts with the selfie stick to get just the right angle—the fluffy white comforter, Victor’s faux-sleepy face, and his limbs wrapped around his new Yuuri pillow, the bulk of it concealing the fact that he is, actually, wearing underwear. He’s just not wearing anything else.

Yuuri wanders into the bedroom, eyes still fixed on the phone in his hand. “‘Hashtag ilovemyYuuribodypillow’— _really_ , Victor?” 

“I only speak the truth. How’s the internet taking it?”

“They’re insane,” Yuuri replies flatly. He looks up from his phone and stops in the doorway, hand falling forgotten to his side as he finally notices Victor, sprawled across the bed all on his own and decidedly _not_ wearing underwear any longer. “Oh. What brought this on?”

“Needed to get your attention,” Victor purrs, rolling onto his stomach and delighting in the little flush that creeps over Yuuri’s cheeks, the way he licks his lips as his eyes trace the curve of Victor’s spine. 

The phone is tossed with no regard onto the bedside table, and Yuuri crawls onto the bed, straddling Victor’s thighs. His hands are warm when they come to rest on Victor’s lower back “You could have just called me in. Now half the world is either ogling your chest or demanding to know where the pillow came from.”

“You deserve it.”

“This isn’t about me.” Victor wants to counter that statement, but—it’s difficult to focus on words when Yuuri’s lips are following the path his fingers just outlined. 

“I don’t like all those strangers looking at you, _Vitya_ ,” Yuuri says, his voice deepening. “From now on, you can send those pictures just to me.”

Victor’s guts twist. Yuuri’s mouth finds his skin again, and then all he can say is, “Yes. Yes, yes, _yes_.”

-

It’s not quite five in the morning when Victor’s phone rings. He slaps at it, knocking it off the table to the floor, then reaches across the bed for Yuuri with his other arm.

Empty. Right. Yuuri’s not home this week. For the past few days he’s been back in Detroit, helping Celestino out with his annual summer camp. Victor’s been sleeping curled around the body pillow each night, just like he promised, but last night he must have shoved it away at some point. 

But it’s Tuesday morning. Yuuri will be home today.

His phone rings again, vibrating loudly against the hardwood planks, and Victor squirms over the edge of the mattress to find it before it can scurry under too far under the bed. It takes a few fumbles before his fingers touch plastic instead of floor, but he fishes it up successfully. 

Yuuri’s face fills the screen, and Victor thumbs to accept the FaceTime call, then props the phone up on the bedside table. “Good morning?” he mumbles through a yawn. “Is everything okay with your flights?”

“Yes, that’s fine.” Yuuri’s pulled his face mask down under his chin. Over his shoulder, Victor can see an airport book shop. A preschool-aged child wearing a backpack leash is throwing herself bodily onto the floor, screaming bloody murder over something her harried mother refuses to buy. Yuuri’s eyes are wide and darting, and it takes Victor a moment to realize it may not be caused solely by the crowded airport.

He’s suddenly feeling much more awake. “Yuuri? What’s wrong?”

“Did you—” Yuuri hesitates. His expression flickers from nervous to firm, then back again. “How did you find out who made the pillow?”

“What?” Victor glances over onto the floor. Pillow Yuuri’s bedroom eyes stare back up at him. “What do you mean?”

“Did you see Phichit’s post this morning?”

“No, someone just woke me up.” Victor can’t keep the bite of irritation out of his voice, and Yuuri stiffens. “Hang on. Wait—Wait just a second.” He picks the phone up and minimizes FaceTime, opening up Instagram and scrolling down until he finds Phichit’s most recent post. It’s less than half an hour old.

In the image, Phichit is fully clothed (thank god) and seated on the futon in his living room. Propped up next to him is the very same Yuuri pillow currently lounging on Victor’s bedroom floor. Phichit has one arm draped on the back of the futon, as if over Pillow Yuuri’s shoulders, and there’s a Playstation controller sitting on the pillow’s “lap.”

 _It was good seeing my friend Yuuri again this week,_ the caption reads, but he wouldn’t let me post any pictures of us! I’m going to miss him anyway. Thankfully, I have this new buddy to hang out with at times like these. He sucks at Fortnite, though. #ilovemyYuuripillow

The message brings a smile to Victor’s face, but then he sees Yuuri’s camera again, and the worry building in his fiancé’s eyes pushes all the amusement away. 

“I didn’t do this,” Victor says, dead serious and even. “Yuuri, I know you didn’t want that. I don’t know where Phichit’s pillow came from. Maybe you should ask him?”

Yuuri’s face falls. “Yeah, maybe.” His shoulders are moving, and Victor can tell he’s starting to breathe too fast. 

Searching for some way to diffuse the situation, Victor opens Instagram again and scrolls through the comments. There are several threads asking for links on where to buy a pillow, and a few have replies. Victor clicks on one and opens the link. 

“Did you order the pillow through an Etsy shop?” Yuuri nods. Victor hesitates to say anything else. He’s not sure how Yuuri will take the news, but… He should know what’s coming. “It looks as if the vendor you ordered from has started selling them to others.”

“ _What_?” 

“I know.” Victor purses his lips. “This is pretty bad. I do have an attorney I use for this sort of thing, though, if you want her number. The shop has a disclaimer saying shipment may be delayed due to ‘overwhelming demand’, so that’s a lot of royalties you and your photographer are missing out on.”

“Royalties?” Yuuri asks, his voice faint.

“Yes, of course. It’s your image being used, as well as the photographer’s work.” Victor picks up his phone, digging through his contacts for Reyna’s phone number, then texts it to Yuuri. “It’s up to you if you’d like to shut the vendor down entirely or simply negotiate a deal so the two of you each receive a percentage.”

When Victor returns to the FaceTime screen, Yuuri is frowning, looking past the phone. “I guess… the photographer deserves to be paid for his work, right?” His voice drops to a mumble. “I wasn’t thinking of that at all.”

He’s staring off into space, saying nothing. When Victor speaks again, Yuuri jumps. “Did you need anything else? I’d love to lay here and stare at you all morning, but my alarm will be going off soon.”

“No, that’s fine. Sorry I woke you.” 

Yuuri still isn’t—quite—looking at the phone. It’s obvious to Victor that there’s something on his mind, something related to this whole pillow business, but he doesn’t seem ready to say anything more. That’s okay. Victor knows that if he’s patient, Yuuri will open up to him at his own pace.

“You can call me any time,” Victor reminds him. “I love you. Text me when you land, okay?”

“Okay. Love you.”

The call ends, and Victor falls back onto the bed, arms outflung. He closes his eyes, wondering if maybe he can doze just a moment longer. 

Right on cue, his alarm beeps, and Makka comes barreling into the bedroom. Eager for her walk, she leaps onto the bed and slams twenty-seven kilos of fluff and claws into his chest. 

“All right,” Victor groans, wrapping his arms around her neck. “I see you. Let’s start the day with some exercise then, hm?”

-

After Yuuri gets back home, once they’ve settled back into one another’s arms, Victor helps him contact Reyna after all, as well as the photographer. As legal disputes go, this one is remarkably easy to resolve. The vendor is apologetic and had no idea of the firestorm she would unleash in selling a few extra pillows. She’s a college student, just making food money on the side, and so they swiftly work out a deal for her to continue selling while giving a percentage of the profits to the photographer.

Yuuri wants nothing for himself in the deal, but Reyna still insists he take a cut. In the end, he agrees to five percent but donates the full amount to charity.

For a few days, things are quiet. Yuuri blames his dimmed mood on jet lag, and Victor lets him. At the end of the day, they still sleep in the same bed, wrapped around each other as if nothing has changed.

People always say that calm comes before a storm.

The posts start on a Tuesday, inauspicious as that may be. Victor gets the alert first, and when he sees the hashtag in the preview, he smiles. It’s Chris, of course, indecently wrapped around his pillow, his seemingly bare hips draped with red satin sheets. 

Anyone else feeling Yuuri up like that—even in pillow form—would drive Victor mad, but Chris is Chris, and so he gets a pass.

Yuuri, out for his morning run, _tears_ into the apartment almost an hour later. The rubber heels on his shoes squeal against the hardwood floors, and Victor frowns, thinking of scuff marks. 

“Did you _see_ it?” Yuuri pants as Makkachin dances around him, thrilled by his sudden return.

“Yes. I can’t help wondering where he got those sheets.” Victor looks back down at his phone, pondering how to word a comment to that effect without damaging Christophe’s reputation. He may have a certain image that the red satin fits, but Victor knows in truth the man sleeps on organic cotton. He’d _never_ put a satin sheet on his bed—the fabric doesn’t breathe.

“What? Where was there a sheet?” Yuuri holds up his phone. “I meant _this_.” 

The picture on his phone isn’t Chris at all, but another familiar blonde head with a bright red streak. Minami is on a bed as well, but he’s sitting straight up, legs criss-crossed. He’s wearing his Longherin costume and beaming, his wonky tooth on full display. 

He’s absolutely surrounded by Yuuris. In addition to the posters on his bedroom walls, Victor can count five—no, wait, _six_ pillows sitting up around him, and more corners point out here and there that might mean still more are in hiding. 

_Katsuki-san’s pillows are like his programs! They always leave you wanting more! I had to get a back-up, and then a back-up for that back-up, and soon I will almost have enough. #ilovemyYuuripillow_

The top comment beneath the caption is in Japanese. From Victor’s limited reading ability, it seems to be calling Minami rude or thoughtless for buying so many for himself when the shop keeps selling out.

“Well,” Victor admits reluctantly, “he is your biggest fan.” It hurts to say it. _He_ should be Yuuri’s biggest fan. He could call the shop directly, ask how many more pillows they have ready to go, how fast they might ship to St. Petersburg…

“What were you saying about sheets?” Yuuri’s still panting from rushing inside. He’s wild-eyed, and his hair looks like it lost a fight with a leaf-blower. From his reaction to the Minami post and Phichit before, Victor can guess what he’s going to think of Chris.

But he’ll see it eventually. 

Victor tells him. The walls of Victor’s apartment are thick—it’s one of the things he prioritized when looking at homes. That only means that when the police arrive, it’s very challenging to convince them that no one was murdered, despite the screaming his neighbors reported.

As if those two images were a signal, the trickle becomes a flood. Within a few days, it seems that the #ilovemyYuuripillow hashtag is perpetually trending on Twitter in one country or another, and Yuuri is constantly being tagged by their friends in images that make him flush until his ears are red.

Leo gets a pillow thrown onto the ice for him at the end of a show in Mexico and posts a photo with himself and Guang Hong sandwiching it in the empty arena stands afterward. Sara takes a selfie in her apartment, her Yuuri pillow covered in bright red lip prints. In the background, Mickey looks seconds away from a full explosion. 

Emil takes his pillow _mountain climbing_. He posts a photo from the peak, the pillow strapped onto his pack and making bedroom eyes over his shoulder. In contrast, Seung-gil’s photo has no caption—it’s merely a heavily filtered shot of his dog using the pillow as a bed. No further comment is needed.

All their friends seem to be in a competition over who can break figure skating fandom the most, and the unquestioned winner (aside from Victor, of course) is “King” JJ himself. In his photo, which garners over 75,000 likes, he’s seated beside the pillow, flashing his teeth as his fiancée, Isabella, makes a poor attempt of hiding behind Yuuri’s image. Her arms are crossed in front of the pillow, making it look like Yuuri himself is throwing “JJ Style”.

Just when it seems that JJ is about to take the gold in this arena, a new challenger enters the ring. 

The picture comes from Mila’s account. She, Yurio, and Georgi are all traveling together for an ice show which Victor, unfortunately, had to miss. (It was on Makkachin’s birthday.) In the photo, Yurio is curled up in the center of a king sized hotel room bed with his two teammates bracketing him. His face is planted right in the center of Pillow Yuuri’s chest, and a dark spot on the fabric gives away another secret—the Ice Tiger of Russia drools in his sleep.

 _Movie night was a bust,_ Mila’s caption reads. _We were up past the baby’s bedtime, and apparently Yuuri Katsuki’s Eros is too tempting even for his rivals. #ilovemyYuuripillow_

And like that, the competition is over. The Yuri’s Angels find the picture and run _wild_ , and soon Twitter is plastered with thousands of photoshopped renditions of Yurio’s sleeping face with various sparkling overlays and badly-drawn kitten ears.

The comments beneath the photo are even better than the picture itself, mostly because Yurio can’t seem to let it go. _I didn’t buy it!_ he claims in one post. _It was a gift! I was so tired from jet lag, I would have fallen asleep on a rock!_

Victor laughs out loud when he reads that last one. Yuuri, seated on the sofa beside him and immersed in a video game, glances over to see what’s so funny, and Victor tilts the phone toward him. He waits for Yuuri to catch the joke: Yurio can’t be jet lagged, the ice show was in _Moscow_.

Instead, Yuuri frowns. His shoulders tense, and he quickly looks away. “Please don’t show those to me any more,” he says, quiet and even.

Victor lowers the phone back to his lap, watching Yuuri as he pretends to be immersed in his game. Poor Yuuri. The pillow thing really seems to have put a lot of stress on him. Victor can’t help thinking he’s at least partly to blame for that, having asked for the original Pillow Yuuri to begin with. 

What could he do to cheer Yuuri up? He considers kissing him, or perhaps taking off his clothes, but these days they do that so often already. No, it needs to be special. 

There’s an email in his inbox related to the pillows, he remembers suddenly. Reyna sent over a message earlier documenting the sales, what the photographer has made, and how much of the profit has gone to charity. Victor goes to his email, opens the PDF, and his eyes widen.

“Yuuri,” he says, showing him the phone again. “Woooow. Look, Reyna says your pillow is selling better than any of mine! Look how much money the charity’s made.”

“Great,” Yuuri grumbles. He doesn’t look at the phone. His shoulders are hunched, and the hands gripping his controller are white-knuckled and trembling.

Victor’s been trying to wait for Yuuri to come to him, but this is the last straw. Slowly, he reaches over to cover Yuuri’s wrists with his hand, pushing the controller down until Yuuri has to stop playing, look over and meet his eyes. 

Yuuri’s not crying, thank god, but he _radiates_ distress, and that’s just as bad. A small sound crawls out of Victor’s throat at the sight of his darling so upset. 

He releases Yuuri’s hand to caress his cheek instead, tilting Yuuri’s face up to the light. “What is it, my Yuuri?” he asks quietly.

Yuuri’s lip trembles before he bites it. His eyes dart away, and Victor can sense that he’s going to try to change the subject again, so he scoots closer and, cautiously, puts an arm around Yuuri’s rigid shoulders. 

In that moment, Yuuri breaks. “I’m glad people are having fun with this, I guess. But I don’t really enjoy… being made fun of.”

“‘Made fun of’?” Victor echoes.

“You know. Posting pictures with it in these scandalous poses or taking it out in public, mocking the way it looks.” Yuuri turns his head away, and Victor’s distracted enough by his confession to let it happen. “I only tried to be sexy for you, because I wanted you to have that, after everything you gave me, and now all these other people are buying it, making it a big joke at my expense.” 

“Yuuri, that’s not—” But of course, their friends _have_ been making jokes, haven’t they? It’s not quite in the way Yuuri’s viewing it—they only mean to tease him a little—but they’re still jokes. What Yuuri hasn’t seen, with his avoidance of social media, is what the rest of that hashtag represents. 

Victor puts his phone aside and reaches for his laptop instead. “I know you asked me not to show you any more, but I think I have something that might help. Do you trust me?”

Eyes lowered, hands on his knees, Yuuri nods. There’s never any hesitation to that answer. 

With Yurio’s picture going viral, it’s easy enough to find the hashtag on Twitter, trending in the St. Petersburg area. Victor pulls it up but scrolls past Yurio, JJ, Chris, and the others. He keeps scrolling through the top tweets in the tag until all the other internationally-known skaters have vanished, then he angles the screen so Yuuri can see what remains. 

A junior skater, a young teen girl with her black hair in pigtails, hugs her pillow as she posts in Spanish, _I feel so lucky to have seen Yuuri Katsuki skate in person in America this year. Someday I hope we can skate on the same ice._

Below that, an older man writes in Russian, his pillowcase framed and hung on the wall behind him. _I used to skate as a boy. As I got older, more often I was called names and tormented by other boys at school for this. I stopped skating in 1987, and I stopped watching competitions as well. It hurt too much. One night on the local news, I saw a clip of this young man competing at Sochi, and suddenly I couldn’t look away. The next day, I walked into a rink for the first time since I was twelve._

Yuuri leans toward the laptop, his hands gripping the sides, pulling it from Victor’s lap to his own. He’s focused in a way Victor rarely sees outside of practice, scanning every word and image.

_Watching Yuuri fall and still push on at the 2015 Grand Prix Final, I knew I couldn’t let my failing algebra grade hold me back from becoming a veterinarian. I can pick myself back up too!_

_Yuuri Katsuki’s short program last year cleared by skin and watered my crops, which is astonishing considering how fucking thirsty it made me._

_My mother and I were watching Victor and Yuuri’s Stammi Duetto exhibition at Barcelona when she turned to me and said, “You know you can tell me anything.” After five long years of hiding, I finally did._

The scrolling stops and Victor leans in, curious where Yuuri’s gaze is lingering. The tweet he’s focused on is in Japanese, too complicated for Victor to read. The woman in the photo is a bit older, round-faced, with a straight chin-length bob haircut and blocky bangs. She’s holding her pillow tightly, her cheek pressed against Pillow Yuuri’s. 

Victor turns to ask Yuuri what the thread says, then pauses, words dying on his tongue. There are tears in Yuuri’s warm brown eyes, lingering at the edges of his lashes. He blinks, and a few spill free. Victor catches the first with his thumb and the second with his lips. 

When Yuuri pulls away from Victor’s kisses, he’s smiling, but his eyes are still wet. “This one is—” he pauses to clear his throat, then begins to translate:

_I have never posted about this so openly before, but my name is Yuki, I’m forty-two years old, and I have social anxiety. Since I was a small girl, I’ve been a fan of figure skating, but even though I watch and participate in online discussion, I never attend competition, shows, or meetups because the thought of all these people overwhelms me with panic._

_I was already a fan of Katsuki Yuuri since he was a junior, but last year when he spoke in interviews about his own anxiety and finding something like love, I felt my heart open to him. I thought, we are not so different after all._

_Now that I know Katsuki-kun, too, has these fears and yet he still competes, I want to try harder to move forward with life too. I am trying to get better, and my goal is to meet Katsuki-kun in person and to tell him ‘Thank you.’ I’m still very scared, but I’m trying. With my pillow, I practice talking to Yuuri sometimes, so hopefully when I see him face to face, he can feel like a friend already._

Yuuri’s voice chokes off as he reaches the end of the thread. “I never... I never knew people connected so much...”

He pushes the laptop back onto the coffee table, then turns to bury his face in Victor’s chest, fist curled in his shirt. For once, Victor doesn’t dither over what to do with Yuuri’s tears moistening his clothes. He wraps his arms around Yuuri’s shaking shoulders and pulls him close, leaning back so they’re reclined on the sofa, Yuuri resting against his chest. 

It takes several long minutes for Yuuri’s sobs to dwindle, until finally his breathing evens out and Victor recognizes that the wet spot growing on his shirt is from Yuuri’s open mouth and not his eyes. 

Carefully not to dislodge his lover, Victor gropes for his phone, lost to the gulf in the couch cushions beneath him. He raises his arm and checks the camera angle, ensuring Yuuri’s messy, post-cry face is out of sight and focusing instead on his dark head where it rests at the center of Victor’s chest. His right arm drapes over Yuuri’s back, engagement ring flashing gold in the afternoon sunlight. 

Above the picture, he types out the best he can with one hand, _Thank you to all our fans for your messages of support and your wonderful Yuuri pillow photos. We’re overwhelmed by love today and every day._

He almost hits post, then hesitates. Returning to the message, he adds only one thing, #ILoveMyYuuri.


End file.
